


Warm Living Rooms

by Birdbitch



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Marvel
Genre: Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 17:37:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1574027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdbitch/pseuds/Birdbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve wakes up and wants to start making dinner. Bucky has other plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warm Living Rooms

When Steve wakes up, the sky is bluer than he had ever seen it—but then, the sky always manages to do that after days of cloudy weather, and every single time it manages to be just as shocking as the last. There’s a weight on a chest and when he looks down, there’s a mess of dark brown hair under his nose. When he fell asleep on the couch, he had been alone with a book (which, now that he thinks about it, has seemed to have disappeared), and now he has Bucky weighing on him and this is probably what heaven feels like.

That being said, he can’t move his legs and according to the clock on the cable box, it’s about time he got started on dinner. He shifts, a little, and lets out a tiny groan. “Buck,” he says, bringing his hand up to touch that back of Bucky’s head, “I gotta get up.”

“No,” Bucky says, still half asleep and unwilling to move.

It isn’t like Steve can’t pick him up without a problem, because he could, but he doesn’t particularly feel like it. Bucky looks comfortable, more comfortable than Steve’s seen him in a while, and he can’t bring himself to ruin that. He can’t, until Bucky rocks his hips down and grinds against him and Steve makes himself stare up at the ceiling. Bucky’s comfortable, alright—just as comfortable as Steve is starting to not be. When he does it again, Steve looks back at him and his breathing has changed and his heart rate has picked up and—”You’re not really asleep right now, are you?”

“No,” Bucky answers, and he doesn’t move his head, necessarily, but he does press a kiss against Steve’s collarbone. “You gonna fuck me, or what, Rogers?”

He groans. “I’ve got to make dinner.”

Bucky sits up now, reconfigures the placement of his legs so he’s straddling Steve’s lap, and he frowns. “Really.”

He thinks for a moment and gives up. “No,” he says, and he pulls Bucky down into a kiss. “But the couch? Shouldn’t we move?” Bucky laughs and shakes his head before kissing him again. “Okay.”

“Really Steve, you should lighten up a little.” The windows of their living room are wide open and he doesn’t care, really, because at this point if the neighbors don’t have any idea of what they get up to, that’s their own problem. “Aren’t you gonna touch me?”

It’s the disappointment in Bucky’s voice that really gets him, and there’s something about a head cocked to the side and a sad, expectant little smile that makes things even worse and the answer is, yes, of course Steve’s going to touch Bucky. All he wants to do is touch Bucky, and all he has ever wanted to do has just been to touch Bucky (and even if it’s not, then he’ll sure as hell act like it is). As soon as he rucks up the back of Bucky’s shirt and starts to push his hand down the small of Bucky’s back and under his waistband, Bucky lets out a hum of approval and is smiling again against Steve’s mouth.

“I can’t fuck you on the couch,” he says, complains, and Bucky whines.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s—we barely fit together on it at all, and besides, my legs are numb.” Not as numb as they could be, but he can’t move the way he wants to and he can’t fuck Bucky the way he wants to and as much as the idea of Bucky splayed out on the couch, debauched and red-mouthed, is one that’s really very appealing to him, it’s not going to work. “I’ll break the damn couch, and you know it.”

“We’ll get a new one.”

“It’s an antique. You’re the one who picked it out in the first place.”

Bucky sits up again and has a petulant frown on his face. He rocks back on Steve’s lap and that’s not a particularly fair move at all, if either of them are being honest, but then, it isn’t like Steve would expect any different. “I can pick out a different one,” he answers. “Do you really want to wait and go to the bedroom?”

No. He doesn’t want to wait and that’s part of the problem. He sighs, and Bucky’s skin is still warm where he’s got his hands, and it wouldn’t be that much effort to undo both of their pants and rut against each other like teenagers. It wouldn’t. He doesn’t know what his own problem is. (Maybe it has to do with the fact that he doesn’t want to leave it at frottage, and that he knows it takes a while for either of them to work up to anything penetrative, and he knows that whatever they do, they’re going to make a mess, and he still has to get dinner started….)

“Get your pants off, Barnes.” Bucky swings his leg over and almost kicks Steve in the face in his attempt to get up and get the pants off his body as fast as possible. When Bucky’s off him, Steve can move, finally, can stretch his legs and can undo his pants and get rid of his belt. (He sees in the corner of his eye the long forgotten book, placed neatly on the table with a bookmark hanging out and marking where he had fallen asleep.) He’s thinking about making a run for the bedroom when Bucky’s back on him, pressing down and grinding his hips and kissing his mouth, his jaw, right below his ear.

So he loses. So what. It isn’t like this is the worst thing to happen to him. He doesn’t particularly want to fight, either, not about something like this, at least, so he goes with it. He’s got a lap full of naked Bucky squirming against him. “C’mere,” he says, and his own voice sounds foreign to him as it often does in these situations, lowered and rough against the back of his throat. He wraps one hand against the back of Bucky’s skull to hold him still and uses the other to maneuver Bucky the way he wants him.

Bucky gets with the program, fast. “You’re hellbent on getting to make dinner, aren’t you?” he asks, reaching his metal hand between them so he can grip them both. Steve can’t help the way his own hips rock up into the sensation, and he can’t help the way his cheeks are starting to get red at the top.

“You’re the one who wanted foreplay,” Steve answers, but his teeth are gritted and his focus is on not coming before Bucky does. It’s a handjob, which isn’t even really his favorite thing as far as sex is concerned (as far as things they do, it might actually be his least favorite, if he’s being totally honest) but it’s still Bucky who’s doing it and it’s still Bucky he’s rubbing against and it’s still Bucky all over.

When Bucky gasps, it’s one of the best noises Steve has ever heard, and he grabs Bucky’s ass tight and hopes to get him to make the sound again. “Alright, alright,” he says, panting, “I get it. Wine and dine me, then ruin my reputation. Got it.”

“I wouldn’t ruin anyone’s reputation,” Steve answers, and he almost bites Bucky as much as he kisses him. “Christ, Buck, move it up a bit. What would you do if I said we were having company?”

“Invite them to watch the show,” he responds, and he smiles, but he gets the message. He’s tired of holding out, too. “I’m gonna get it on your shirt.”

“We have a washing machine now. It’s okay.” Bucky still shrugs, but he doesn’t hold back and it does, in fact, get all over Steve’s shirt. When Steve comes, it’s just as messy, and his shirt’s a lost cause now. “You should take a shower,” he says, and Bucky rolls his eyes at him, sliding off and standing up slowly.

“Yeah? And what the hell are you going to do?”

“I’m going to change my shirt and make dinner,” he answers, a smile on his face. He stands up too, and leans down a little bit so he can press a kiss against the corner of Bucky’s mouth. “Don’t look so upset. I’ll make it something light.”

Bucky looks like he’s going to complain, but bites it down. “Artichokes,” he says, and he turns and smiles at Steve before bending down to retrieve his clothes. “Make something with artichokes in it for me, yeah? And then we can do it in the bed every way you want.” Steve watches him walk down the hall towards the bathroom, and he groans.

He doesn’t even know if they have any artichokes.

When he looks out of the window, it’s still bright enough that it heralds the beginning of summer, and Steve figures, what the hell. He can make it to the supermarket and back before Bucky’s done, and he’ll be able to grab more chicken breasts while he’s at it. Maybe even wine, like Bucky suggested. It doesn’t sound so bad, when he thinks about it, and if the smile on his face comes more from the idea of what’ll happen after dinner than the process of making the food itself, well. Nobody has to know that.


End file.
